The Arts

I I stood back and watched, arms across chest. And I’ll tell you this before I confess. Why should the frauds deserve to brag and toot their own horns? While they hide behind masks of incompetence and patches of thorns, That scratch the morality of the human soul, That scar the integrity, leaving the world ice cold. II How abstract, how visionary, they all say As they push and shove to get in the way. How beautiful, how quaint, they all clamor As they pull out their glasses to view some more. Such charlatans the lot of them, Pretending to be above the rest. How phony, how fake, I say; They’re certainly not the best. How delicate, how fragile, they all coo As they press together to critique the new. How fancy, how elegant, they all exclaim As they exaggerate and tell tall tales of their fame. Such quacks the lot of them, Believing that they’re number one. How boorish, how rude, I say; But I am finally done. III I’m off into the night with the paintings And to this day everybody says It must have been a ghost for they’d never suspect Me, The Honorable Charles Rodriguez (the third, esquire).

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